


Let Us Together Closely Lie and Kiss

by Dryad



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: AU, Other, casefile, pg13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 07:39:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I Spy - with My Little Eye -</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Us Together Closely Lie and Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Fixed a couple of grammar things, but I know I've missed one. Let me know if you find them!

~*~

"You have to show up, James! It's your duty!"

Hathaway closes his eyes and rubs his brow hard. "Caressa, I'm not going to crash Valentina's wedding. I wasn't invited, end of."

"That's just an excuse and you know it. Mummy would love to see you, and Neil is a nice chap. And stop calling her by her given name."

He leans back in his chair, spins to look out over the bullpen through the window, spies Lewis clapping one hand on Drew DeMarco's shoulder, decides to end the conversation firmly. "I really can't have this conversation at work."

He jerks the phone away at Caressa's explosive huff of breath, gingerly holds it closer as she begins to rant. Though out of all his siblings they are closest in age - a mere twelve years apart - besides their parents they have very little in common. Fate has already conspired against him; he is free the day of the wedding. Watching Lewis stop to sign a bit of paperwork, and yet again to chat with that woman from the CPS, the one who always wears eye-wateringly strong floral perfume, Hathaway abruptly says, "I have to go," and hangs up. Caressa will be pissed off, but when isn't she?

Lewis steps into the room with a happy smile. "Morning, James!"

"Morning, sir," he murmurs, hardly daring to look his boss in the eye. After a moment he adds, "You're very chipper."

"Ah well, it's a beautiful spring day and _we_ are headed to the country."

Hathaway blinks. "Really? But what about the Coulson case? And Peter Halpers' testimony?"

Lewis stops gathering his things to put his hands on his hips. "Hathaway, will you just leave it for a minute? This is one gift horse we are not looking in the mouth. Innocent wants us to collect an Alejandro Bianchi from Wherwell Village in Hampshire."

"Hampshire?" It will be hours in the car, including return, and Hathaway isn't sure he wants to spend that much time with Lewis. Not today. Not after -

"Well come _on_ man, get yourself together. I, for one, am looking forward to getting out of Oxford."

Hathaway dutifully snags his jacket off the back of his chair, pats the pockets to make sure of ciggies and lighter, pen and tablet. Grabbing his phone, too, he strides down the hall after Lewis, wonders if Lewis even knows anything, because he doubts the man would otherwise be so upbeat on a Monday morning.

For Hathaway had not expected a thing, not a single thing coming back from the toilet, wiping damp hands on his jeans. He had felt his thumbnail snag and swore softly under his breath. Inspecting it, he realized if he didn't take care of it as soon as he got home he just knew he would either end up creating a pull on a suit or ripping his nail to the quick. As he went down the stairs, he saw motion through the hallway window and stopped to see what it was. 

Robbie was still in the garden, turning sod with a spade. He stopped and stretched, back broad with what Hathaway personally knew was a wide swath of ridged muscle. The sweat patch on Lewis' green shirt was proof of the hot work in the garden, and Hathaway thought a beer might be appreciated. He knew _he_ certainly would appreciate it.

Val was stirring a pot on the stove when he walked into the kitchen. Hathaway poked his head into the rising steam and sniffed. "Mm, vanilla? Smells good."

"Pudding," she snapped.

Hathaway glanced at her, jerking back as she whipped the wooden spoon towards him, splattering him with hot cream. 

"I saw what you did," she hissed, holding the spoon like a sword and shaking it. "I _saw_ you! You and him! How could you do that, James? How could do that to me, to _me!_ "

Oh God. He felt the blood draining from his face, his fingers and toes.

"Summertime," pronounces Lewis, accelerating down the A34. "When a man wants for a partner."

Hathaway feels a frisson of unease. He very carefully looks out of the window.

"Val was saying last night that she knows a few people she'd be happy to introduce to you."

Oh _God_.

"If you're interested, of course."

"Mm," Hathaway drives his nails into his thigh to mask the effort of not screaming.

"Look, lad, she'd have me head if I didn't mention it, that's all."

"Sir," he eyes Lewis' reflection in the window, ignoring the way Lewis purses his lips. An uncomfortable topic for both of them, and not something he wants to dwell on, for multiple reasons, some of which he even admits to himself from time to time. "So who is Alejandro Bianchi?"

"Alejandro Bianchi, twenty-nine, son of an Argentinian banker, distant cousin of Karen McCutcheon."

"Ah."

"Yes, 'ah'. Apparently he's testifying against Leonard and Samuel McCutcheon. Flew in under an assumed name - "

Hathaway looks at Lewis in amazement. "Seriously?"

Lewis nods. "Aye. No one's supposed to know he's in England, not even neighboring Constabulary, which is why we've been sent to fetch him."

"Wait, wait," Hathaway shakes his head. "If this is so hush hush, why isn't the Flying Squad or MI5 doing the business?"

"Beats me," says Lewis with a shrug. "Ours not to know. Since Uniform's not doing it, it must be political."

"So Innocent sends us."

Lewis grins at Hathaway's droll tone, because yes, the two of them are not exactly known for their discretion when it comes to politics and policework.

Two hours later, after arguing over what music station to listen to on the radio - Lewis voted for pop classical, while Hathaway insisted upon 'proper' classical music, or at least Laura Marling on his mp3 player - they come to Wherwell. It is a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of town, a real chocolate box affair complete with thatched roofs, flower gardens, window boxes, a large white inn with black trim, and plenty of open fields dotted with sheep. Hathaway wants to hate it, to be all modern and dismissive of the touristy quaintness of the place, but the truth is that he's quite taken by its beauty. The very essence of England in a few acres. 

They turn down various roads until they reach Rose Lane, at the end of which stands Rose Manor, a sprawling 4 storey behemoth that had clearly started life as a small Tudor hall. Unfortunately no one had decided to revamp the whole thing into something coherent, though the masses of ivy and climbing roses in pink and yellow do help to hide the hideousness. Still, he finds himself displeased with the architecture, and when Lewis smirks at him as they get out of the car, he knows Lewis knows exactly what he's thinking and why.

The front door opens as they approach it and a young man exits. He's tanned, dark-haired, and can match Hathaway in height, which Hathaway always finds a little disconcerting. He's used to being the tallest person in the room, and it upsets his equilibrium when he's not. And the occasions when there's someone even taller? It's just down right bizarre, which isn't what he should be thinking about right now. 

"Inspector?" 

Lewis strides forward, shakes the proffered hand. "Mr. Bianchi?"

"That's me. And you are?" says Bianchi, glancing at Hathaway sharply. 

Bianchi's eyes are an unexpectedly bright Caribbean blue; Hathaway wonders if they are contact lenses, wonders why he never considered doing the same. "Sergeant Hathaway."

"Ah! Well," Bianchi exclaims, clapping his hands once and rubbing them tightly together. He shrugs, looking back and forth between the two of them. "Shall we be going?"

"You're all ready?" asks Hathaway.

"Have everything I need in my back pocket," Bianchi says, patting his bum.

Lewis nods once and they all turn and get into the car. 

Hathaway turns off the radio. He's a little intrigued by Bianchi, not least because of his very very faint Spanish accent, but by how he looked at Lewis as they were walking back to the car. Hathaway does not like that look. Hathaway does not like Bianchi, for no particular reason he can determine. He's just one of those people whose everything is wrong, from his choice in shoes to the way he parts his hair. Lewis, on the other hand, chatting away with Bianchi about the weather in England and what there is to eat and Italian coffee and wait, what? "Italian coffee?"

Lewis shoots him an amused look. "I've been to Italy, Hathaway."

"Oh, right," because Lewis is well known for his travels in Europe. Hathaway concentrates on driving, listening with half an ear to Bianchi's questions about England, about Oxford, about Lewis. There is a pattern, but he can't quite make out what it is, for every time he thinks the questions become too personal, Bianchi backs off, changes the subject, or simply listens to Lewis.

Shortly before noon they stop in Compton for lunch. The White Horse (honestly, could there be a more generic name for a pub?) proves to be a gastro-pub wannabe, only without the ambiance. Or the food. Hathaway settles for a steak pie and chips, while Lewis tucks into scampi and chips and Bianchi tries a Yorkshire pudding filled with ultra-orange beef curry. And chips. When asked, he says it's delicious, and Hathaway has to hide his smirk because that is so clearly not the case it's funny. 

It's also _not_ funny when Bianchi hits on Hathaway while Lewis goes to use the toilet. 

Elbows on the table, he leans conspiratorially towards Hathaway and whispers over the non-existent music, "I can tell you're one of us."

Hathaway takes a slow sip of his lemonade. Diet, terrible. "One of us?"

Bianchi's mouth curls up on one side. "You know what I mean. Men who like other men."

Hathaway does not know what to say to that. He wants to say no, but that would be a lie.

"Perhaps, even we two..?"

"You realise you're propositioning a police officer."

Bianchi takes a sip of coffee, shrugs one shoulder. "Of course not. We're simply conversing about personal matters. I'm sure a man like you already has someone in mind."

He will not let his distaste for the man make him slack in his job. A job which is, thankfully, only going to last for the next hour or so, depending on traffic. "Why are you here?"

"Don't you know?"

"You're testifying against your family - "

"Distant relations," Bianchi says, flicking one hand in the air. 

" - but that hardly seems worth bringing you over from Argentina."

"And so we come to the meat of the matter. Can't you guess?"

Hathaway knows himself to be an intelligent man, perhaps even more than most, so he wishes Lewis was here, wishes Lewis with his cunning could make sense of exactly what game Bianchi is playing. Because now he doesn't doubt there _is_ a game...although he's not quite clear which opponent Bianchi's playing against. He knows Bianchi's type, university was full of them. "Your accent is barely detectable."

Bianchi grins, clearly enjoying himself. "I attended Harvey Mudd in California for my undergraduate degree, then McGill for my graduate degree, and MIT for my Doctorate. I adapt very quickly to my surroundings."

Which answers the question. Somewhat. "A scientist," states Hathaway.

"An engineer," corrects the other man.

Hathaway feels outmanouvered and decides that his best option is to keep quiet and let Bianchi do the talking. He's a police officer, for the love of god, he knows the best way to encourage someone to spill their secrets, so what is it about Bianchi that's got him so flustered? Thankfully he spies Lewis out of the corner of his eye, pulling his wallet out of his jacket. Sparing himself more inane conversation, Hathaway shoves his chair back and stands. Bianchi mirrors him and together they approach Lewis. 

Glancing at Bianchi, Hathaway is surprised to see him eyeing Lewis with sharp intent. He manages to keep himself from grabbing the Argentinian's arm and forcing him away from his DI. Something stinks...he just needs to figure out what.

Back in the car Lewis turns on the radio, saying to Hathaway's concerned look, "I'll fall asleep after that meal without some music," and he turns the station to Radio One. 

Hathaway can't help but grimace at Lewis' choice. 

"Don't give me that tone of face, Sergeant. I've been subjected to more..." He stops to wave his hands in the air. "...more madrigals than I can shake a stick at."

Which is when Hathaway realizes his Governor knows something is up. Lewis would never be so flippant in front of a suspect. Not that Bianchi is a suspect, he's a _witness_. Reflected in the mirror, Bianchi is steadfastly staring out the window. Is that the slightest smile on his lips or is that just Hathaway's imagination? He risks a quick glance at Lewis, who twitches one eye in what could be considered wink, if you were an idiot. Hathaway says, "What kind of engineer?"

"Pardon?" Bianchi answers.

"What kind of engineer are you?"

"Chartered," Bianchi closes his eyes briefly, nods to himself. "I rubber stamp plans and drawings, make sure the public is safe from rogues and the unscrupulous."

"Sounds like an easy job."

"In many ways it is. Except for the constant terror you're going to get it wrong and people will die. I'm sure you're familiar with that feeling."

Hathaway bristles even as Lewis makes an aborted gesture towards his arm. The sooner they get to Oxford the better, as far as Hathaway is concerned.

They drive and they drive and they drive and the coffee and heavy lunch is having serious effects on Hathaway's internal organs when they reach the station. He practically leaps out of the car with a firm grip on Bianchi's upper arm, taking him inside before Lewis has done more than unbuckle his seat belt. 

This time he's grateful Bianchi is tall, because Hathaway doesn't have to slow down his stride (which is also getting him some odd looks). Interview Room 4 is free, so he brings Bianchi in and closes the door behind them. He knows it's not the right thing to do, but he simply cannot go on without knowing the truth. "Why are you really here? What is it you want?"

Bianchi doesn't look at Hathaway as he stares at the 'Know Your Rights' graphic poster on the wall, murmuring, "I saw what you did. In the car."

Hathaway frowns. Nothing - "Nothing happened in the car."

"Really?" Bianchi asks, turning to look at him. "Everyone's heard the rumours about the British Police, but I didn't ever think I'd see it in the flesh, as it were. I'm sure my solicitor would be interested in the...relationship...between you and your boss."

"Relationship?" Hathaway replies faintly, a gurgle in his guts fair warning of where he needs to be, and how soon.

Bianchi gives a satisfied, sly smile. His teeth are bright white and perfect against the dark gold of his skin. "Oh yes."

Even as his cheeks flush, Hathaway manages to keep his tone cool. "There was nothing _to_ see."

"I'm sure that's what you think."

"Someone will be in here to speak to you," and with that, he leaves Bianchi alone.

In the bathroom he washes his hands carefully, thinking about what Bianchi might have seen that led him to such a conclusion. Not that it matters, he has to talk to Lewis regardless. 

_Christ._

Lewis is on the phone, his face like thunder, when Hathaway enters the office. Lewis motions him to close the door with a sharp, irritated chop. Judging by the chilly atmosphere, it's not Val or Lyn on the line, so Innocent is the most likely cause of upset. Confirmed a moment later when Lewis says, "Yes, ma'am," and hangs up, not quite dropping the handset into its cradle. 

Hathaway unbuttons his jacket and sits down, reads the phone messages left on his desk. Two from Jyoti London (Return call before 5pm TODAY underscore underscore), one from Lucky (Sorry, can't play on Thursday), plus one each from Orlando, Ophelia and Minerva. He shakes his head, tosses the lot into the trash can. He is not going to Valentina's wedding and he will _not_ explain himself to the lot of them. Caressa can very well do that on her own, thank you very much. 

"James."

"Hmm?" Hathaway snaps his head up, mindful that his thoughts have wandered. Lewis is standing at his desk, the sleeves of one his older blue shirts rolled up to his elbows. He's looking at Hathaway with a faint crease between his eyebrows. "What?"

"There's been a complaint."

For a moment he's gobsmacked, then realizes - "Bianchi? Didn't take him long," he grouses. He can tell Lewis doesn't believe a word of it and neither will Innocent, but she is a stickler for protocol and he knows an investigation has already been launched. 

"We both know it's ridiculous," says Lewis, coming to stand next to Hathaway. He lays a hand on Hathaway's shoulder. "How long were you alone for?"

 _For how long were you alone?_ Hathaway silently corrects, distracted by the heavy warmth of Lewis' palm, the light, rhythmical squeeze of his fingers. "Just a minute or so. But," he looks up. "he made an insinuation. About the two of us. In the car."

"He can make all the insinuations he likes, he saw nothing."

"But what if word gets out - "

"It won't, lad. And even if it did, who would be believed when every police man in this country would tell them different?"

Hathaway ducks his head down, like he used to do in church, and, steeling himself against Lewis' righteous anger (though towards whom, and for what, he doesn't know), mutters, "It gets worse. Val found out."

Because he can't bear to not know what Lewis is thinking, he risks a look up at him. "She said she saw us."

Lewis holds himself perfectly still, gaze gone closed and distant.

"Robbie?"

Holding both hands in the air, Lewis steps away. "You're telling me she saw...?"

Hathaway shrugs. "She didn't say. But she hates me."

"Didn't smell like roses," Lewis says abruptly. He bobs his head to one side, flicks an eyebrow up at the same time. "The house, Rose Manor. All those roses and no scent."

"Disappointing," says Hathaway, not quite understanding the non sequitur.

Lewis nods, clearly not paying attention to anything work related any more. He gathers his things and stalks out without another word.

Although they have never discussed it, now it seems obvious to Hathaway that Lewis has never spoken to Val about it, either. Which is funny considering how long they have been married. Then again, maybe Lewis and Morse did not have the kind of relationship he has with Hathaway. Yet, everything he's ever heard of the two of them suggest they did. 'Thick as thieves', people _still_ said.

He ponders what to do now. He decides to bite the proverbial bullet and goes to see if Innocent has a few minutes to speak to him.

Here's the thing about Jean Innocent: she's stern but fair. She never breaks the rules but is willing to bend them. She's not afraid to show her disappointment, her anger, or her compassion. She is very good at treading delicately, a rare commodity in management of any variety. All of which means she is both displeased and curious to see him. On the face of it reputation means everything to her, and between the things she's let slip and station gossip he knows exactly why.

"Sergeant Hathaway," she says drily, upon seeing him peek through the open doorway. "How good of you to stop by."

"Ma'am. Do you have a moment?"

"For you, always."

He closes the door behind himself and sits in one of the chairs in front of her desk. "Inspector Lewis told me there's been a complaint from Alejandro Bianchi."

She nods, leans back in her chair and observes him for a very very long minutes. "What exactly did he see?"

Shaking his head, he shrugs helplessly. Once again he quickly reviews what he and Lewis have done since collecting Bianchi. "I genuinely can't think of anything, ma'am."

"Hugging? Kissing?"

"Of course not!" Hathaway is shocked she could even think they would be so unprofessional to do anything like that in public. He and Lewis have their moments, but not where the world can see. Although Val -

"I'm sorry, I had to ask," Innocent says, rubbing one hand on her brow. "Hathaway - James. What I'm going to tell you does not leave this office."

"Alright," he cautiously answers, not liking how she puts her elbows on the desk, how she pauses to think about how to say what she wants to say.

"It has been noted that you are unaware of how the two of you appear."

He frowns. "What do you mean?"

"You are...close."

He doesn't understand. 

At the look on his face she sighs heavily. "Physically. You practically sit on top of one another. You walk around as if you own the place, and god forbid anyone get between the two of you at a crime scene."

"I...don't know what to say. If we're doing any of that, it's not conscious action."

She nods, relief plain to see in her self-deprecating smile. "I rather thought that was the case, to be honest. I've never seen the merest hint of impropriety as the great unwashed would understand it," she looks at her computer, then back at him from the corner of her eye. "Have you ever...?"

Yes. Oh, not the full, no, touching, yes. Intimately, yes. _Yes_. He's invested in whatever it is that is their relationship, for want of a better, different word. 

"I know it's difficult to, to keep things private, to keep them in the station."

Hathaway gives a dismissive wave of one hand. He finds he is surprisingly comfortable listening to Innocent on this subject. Then again, who else could he talk to - Fiona? No chance. 

"Did they give you the speech at Hendon?"

The memory of it makes Hathaway blush with embarrassment. Of standing in a row with McMichaels and Sanderson, Dixon (forever to be mocked) and Shelley and Askwith in their uniforms, being told in no uncertain terms to cooperate with their betters. 

In all ways.

Which he has done, although with great reservations. It seems like a poor way to progress through the ranks, and after working with DS Preece and DS Salmond and DI Douthwaite and Jesus Christ, Grainger, he makes a point of being cool and standoffish with whomever he is partnered. And until Lewis, this has saved him from people forming attachments. Well, apart from Laura, yet she is really only a work colleague, albeit one he likes.

"James?"

"Ma'am."

"I - " she hesitates, then says, "Be careful. I don't know what you two get up to outside of official business while you're in this building, and I don't want to know. I'm sure you're equally discreet outside the station, and again, I must reiterate how much I do not want to know what you get up to."

This time he nods. Honestly, what does she expect him to say? He waits a moment, then asks, as if it has just occurred to him, "About the complaint - "

"Oh," she purses her lips, clearly annoyed. "Don't worry about that. Bianchi has no proof, and even if he did, the only way he'd get any attention about it is to go to some local rag who wouldn't believe him anyway."

Which is much what Lewis had said, earlier. He waits to see if she's going to say anything else, but she's started shuffling papers so he assumes it's safe to leave. He is somewhat reassured - for his professional career, anyway. 

Hathaway finishes some paperwork for the Van Guilder case, sits in on the Nichols interview run by Constable Formby (who will make an okay copper, though not a brilliant one, and really, it's too bad he's been saddled with DC Gordon, who couldn't find his way out of the station with a map and a yellow line on the floor), and checks his phone every hour to see if Lewis has sent him a text.

There's nothing.

At seven he leaves the station. The pub holds little appeal, so he heads home instead. There's whisky and beer there, and he can get quietly, morosely drunk without having to keep an eye on his policeman persona. He groans aloud when he pulls up to his flat, because Karen is sitting on the next door's outside step, and Jack is building a Titanic with Legos. Karen waves while Jack leaps to his feet and runs down the pavement. Hathaway thinks he is going to have to do something. What, he doesn't know.

"Hewwo!" Jack says brightly, stopping just shy of the kerb. "Hi James!"

"Hullo, Jack," says Hathaway, coming around the front of the car and rubbing the boy's nearly shaved head. "How have you been keeping today?"

"I had chi, I had fi, I had bean, I had appaw."

Hathaway can't help but smile. James is only 5, and a late talker. It must be easy for many people to assume he's mentally deficient, but Hathaway can tell the boy is of sound mind. And if he's truthful, Jack is the reason he can't turn Karen away. "Sounds like a fantastic dinner." 

"What _you_ eating?" asks Jack, pointing just to emphasize his question.

"I don't know yet," Hathaway answers, slowly walking towards his front door (Please god don't let Karen ask him in for tea), Jack following close behind. "I might have chips and beans too."

Jack licks his lips and rubs his tummy in empathetic bliss. "Mmm!"

"Come on, Jack. Let's leave James to his dinner," calls Karen, standing up. 

Hathaway looks away when a pale strip of belly reveals itself between her jeans and white jumper as she stretches. He's pretty sure she doesn't do it deliberately. She gives him the willies sometimes, though, with her physicality. She's pretty, sure, with wavy long dark brown hair, and almond shaped dark brown eyes. He's wondered if she has Asian ancestors. Jack is half Jamaican, confusing the issue even further. He's a good looking child, though. Hathaway can see him being a model in the catalogs, or doing something that requires having what his Gran would have called 'A face for the films'.

"Night night," says Jack, giving Hathaway a one-armed hug.

"Night night, Jack," Hathaway squeezes him back, pats him on the shoulder as the boy runs back to his mum. "G'night, Karen."

She nods and the two of them disappear into their flat.

Thank god. He's man enough to admit he wants some company, but not that of a woman and small boy. They're good neighbors, and he really does like Jack. Besides, he knows what it is to be an outsider, to desperately want friends. He knows what it is to be treated differently, and he will do what he can to make sure Jack knows he is a person worth knowing in and of himself. It doesn't matter that Jack is not his responsibility. Sometimes kids just need to hear an opinion besides that of parents and siblings. They need to know that not everyone views them the same way.

Inside his own flat he goes to the bedroom and strips, only realizing how upset he is after hurling his shoes across the room. Sinking down on to the bed, he rubs his face with both hands, unable to stop the deep breaths verging on sobs hitching his throat. _Christ_ \- this is all his fault. He should have stopped Lewis' advances once he'd recognized them for what they were. Thing is, though, Lewis was so subtle, so unassuming in his approach that Hathaway found himself involved before he even understood what was happening. And once he had, he should have asked to work under someone else - he should have done something, _anything_ to avoid what was happening now. Because there's no question Lewis is never going to leave Val. He's never indicated he would want to, nor would Hathaway ever expect it of him. Which begs the question; why is he even thinking about Lewis leaving Val?

Not knowing what is happening is the biggest problem, and since calling Lewis is not an option - what if Val answered the phone? He's simply going to have to wait until Lewis contacts him. So he's in for a rough night of it.

The third time he opens the refrigerator he concludes that no, he isn't hungry, although there's plenty of food to eat. The leftover Sunday roast, brussels and mash with a pear and cranberry tarte tatin he had made on a whim. Maybe tomorrow he will have an appetite.

Reading, usually a brilliant escape, is untenable tonight, and though he plucks at the strings of his guitar, music is also not the answer. When the silence gets to be too much he turns on the tv and loses himself first in the International Fencing on Eurosport 2, and then on the DanceSport repeat on Sky. He still has a finger's worth of whisky in the glass when he curls up on the sofa, pulling the cream wool blanket over his shoulders.

In the morning he goes on his run, and then a mixed bag of pushups and pullups, squats and lateral pulls with the strong pink stretchy bands. Extra time is taken in the shower - there's a good chance this will be the most peaceful and relaxed part of his day - and he dresses in a somber black suit, with a dark lavender shirt and a tie with red twoile paisleys on a black background.

So of course when he enters the office, the first words out of Lewis' mouth are, "God, man, when's the funeral?"

"Ha ha," he mutters, not wanting to appear too eager for news. Having said that, Lewis is in fine mettle, smiling and cheery, much like the previous morning. There was even coffee and a cheese danish on Hathaway's desk, which was a relief, because that meant...something. No, it meant that Lewis still cared, even if things would absolutely be different between them. Besides, Lewis knows sweet pastry is something Hathaway usually denies himself."Sir," he ventures.

"Not now, Sergeant, we've got a new investigation. Dentist found in the Cherwell, mouth stuffed with cotton balls."

Hathaway grimaces. No one likes dentists, however one couldn't do without them. And the cotton balls, well, that's just nasty. "Anything else?"

Lewis is halfway out the door before Hathaway has a chance to do more than stuff the danish in his mouth and grab his coffee.

The day is an agony. Lewis makes no mention of the complaint or Val, and Hathaway assumes this will be the way it is from now on. And if only he could keep his stupid mouth shut when it comes to Lewis, maybe that will be the way it is. Oh, he can concentrate on the case well enough, although it feels like busywork.

Which is a horrible thing to think, and he wonders if this is what Father Paul-Michael meant when he said there was a lot of similarity between policework and priestwork. And Paul-Michael understood, having been a policeman himself before joining the Church. With a smile and raised eyebrows, Paul-Michael had said, "Confession is surprisingly the same, except we are concerned more with the spiritual than the physical," and then, "But for those of us prone to deep thoughts, the depression is also exactly the same, and the joys don't usually last as long."

Hathaway quietly huffs a laugh at himself. Paul-Michael had been more right than he knew. The joys are few and far between. Though somewhere in England there is a four year old named James, the result of Hathaway going to a Traveller's aid while Hooper called for more officers. That was still a joy.

After telling Barbara Maitland the bad news about her brother, Hathaway and Lewis get sandwiches (egg mayonnaise, cheese and pickle) and cold drinks (water, water, black coffee, orange juice) and sit on a bench down the lane. Hathaway doesn't know what to say or how to start saying it. So of course he has a mouthful of egg and cress when Lewis says, "Val saw us in the office. After the Rubin murders."

Of _course_.

It wasn't particularly late, but Hathaway still yawned, slid down a little further in his chair and muttered, "I should go home."

"Yeah, you should."

He closed his eyes and listened to Lewis move around the office. There was the click of the monitor button. The soft 'sussh' of the drawer sliding closed, the clink of coffee mugs gathered together, ready to be brought home (by Hathaway) and washed (by Hathaway). Sound faded as he felt himself growing more loose-limbed, jaw slack. He startled awake at the touch on his shoulder, and rocketed to his feet still half asleep, tried and failed to catch the spinning chair from crashing into the filing cabinets. 

"Sorry, sorry," said Lewis.

Hathaway blinked down at him, unable to think anything beyond how had he never noticed the depth of blue in Lewis' eyes before? There was a stillness between them, the office near silent, the bullpen dark with sleeping computers and desk lamps unlit.

Then Lewis leaned up and kissed him. On the mouth.

Astonished, Hathaway stood there stupidly, the known future abruptly not quite so sure as it once was. Lewis kissed him again, lingering to swipe the tip of his tongue against his lips, and then inside, welcomed gladly.

Hathaway found he was no longer tired.

Lewis dove in for a full-on snog, hands now tight on Hathaway's hips. Hathaway was no fool, responding in kind with his arms tight against Lewis' back. If this was what they had meant by 'all ways' at Hendon, count him in to give The Speech next year.

Lewis finally pulled back, looking very pleased with himself. "Alright, Sergeant?"

Breathless, Hathaway nodded. "Yes, sir," he said faintly, only remembering afterwards that he usually only said 'sir' when he was angry or being sardonic.

Lewis returned to his desk, slung his jacket over one shoulder. At the door he turned back, looked at Hathaway. Obviously satisfied with what he saw, he said, "I'll see you in the morning."

Hathaway nodded again. How was it possible he had not known it could be like this? All those unwanted times with Preece and the rest - he'd thought he was the odd one out. Again. 

Paul-Michael had hinted that the interpersonal relationships between officers could be difficult. Had he meant this sort of thing or had he been thinking that Hathaway would have problems because of his antiquated ideas about Homosexuality? Maybe this was the reason Paul-Michael had left the police for the priesthood? He had never told Hathaway the reason why, merely reiterated that it was not a job for everyone.

Turned out it was a job for him after all. He smiled to himself and shook his head in disbelief. 

Dr. Hobson walked by the door, then came back to lean against the jamb. She said, "You're a happy chappy."

Hathaway grinned back at her. She had her own happy face on, the one he preferred to see after that ugly incident in the graveyard. "It's been a brilliant end to the day."

She dug through her pockets with a smiling frown, brought out a handful of pound coins. "Fancy a pint?"

"Absolutely," he answered, putting on his jacket. "My shout."

"Oo, you _must_ have had a good day. Now tell me all about it."

Hathaway had subtly tried to drill her on what she knew - about Lewis, about policework (because surely she'd seen things related to warm bodies?), backing off when she had eyed him suspiciously. It was so easy to forget that while she was not a police officer, she had been trained to be observant.

The evening passed pleasantly enough, the heady remembrance of Lewis' kiss giving him more of a buzz than the lager he drank. In the morning he had vague memories of intense dreams, though he couldn't pick anything out beyond a hazy black and white image of running through a parking lot at the speed of cold molasses. Dismissing it from his mind, he went for a short run and ate a light breakfast of cold roast between slices of hot, buttered toast, along with a cup of tea sweetened with a single spoon of sugar. 

"Hathaway. James? Sergeant!"

Hathaway realizes he's staring at his sandwich, the innards of which are threatening to slide out onto the ground. "I didn't see her," he says, folding the butcher's paper back around his lunch and putting it to one side. 

Lewis shakes his head, looking out over the street and the passersby. "I'd forgotten we were going to Barry Richards' for dinner that night and she'd come to collect me. She was waiting in the car park, didn't say a word, didn't even act differently."

"I'm sorry," says Hathaway. Regret and responsibility for the state of Lewis' marriage fills him. It's not been like this with the other wives and partners. He's faced scorn and admonishment, acceptance and dislike, but never outright hatred. Quite frankly, he's never been personally invested enough to care what they thought. But Val, though. He knows her. He's been to her house, eaten her food, taken her places when Lewis was unavailable.

He's broken her trust.

"Not your fault, lad," Lewis shakes his head. "I should have told her when I first became a copper."

Hathaway almost asks about Morse, but hesitates too long and the moment passes. 

"I think we're alright, now. Been through far worse."

They sit and eat, well, Lewis eats while Hathaway alternates sipping coffee and water. His stomach is filled with sour acid; he really should try and finish his lunch.

"Come on, let's head back."

In the car Lewis puts on the radio and through some miracle the Carmina Burana is on, the Eugene Ormandy version, Hathaway's preferred director. Lewis says he likes to hear Hathaway sing along to 'Si Puer Cum Puellula'. And 'Veni, Veni, Venias', which Hathaway has actually heard Lewis mumble under his breath occasionally when they're in the office. He's not particularly in the mood for the cheer of 'Tempus Est Jocundum', either. No, the gloom and doom of 'O Fortuna' is appropriate, followed by Beethoven's 5th, and then possibly some Sibelius or Paart or Grieg or Hedningarna, because nobody beats the Scandinavians for depressing music that's really pretty.

Lost in his thoughts, he notices the SKY news van only immediately after passing it. There's also the BBC and CNN International, Al Jazeera and others he doesn't recognize, plus more lingerers with cameras on their shoulders, recording into phones, the plastic PRESS badges on lanyards around their necks glinting sharply in the sunlight.

"What's going on here?" mutters Lewis, already frowning. 

Hathaway lays on the horn to get the journos out of the way, then pulls into an empty spot in the lot. They hustle out of the car, ignoring the shouts of "Inspector!" and "Inspector Lewis, tell us about the murder!"

"That's not good," says Hathaway, reaching over Lewis' shoulder to hold the door open for himself. 

Nick Chapman is the Duty Sergeant at the desk and he gives them a grim nod. "Herself wants you."

"What's going on?" says Hathaway loudly, spying white suits at the end at the end of the hall, one with a forensics tool kit slung over its shoulder.

"You'll soon find out," calls Chapman as they bound up the stairs.

There's more controlled chaos in the hallway, the buzz of hushed voices and nervous energy, the kind that only happen on the really big cases, and Hathaway finds himself hoping Bianchi hasn't anything do with it.

Innocent's door is closed and she's saying something strongly into the phone. She happens to glance up and motions them in just as Hathaway peeks through the window.

"Sir, they're here now," she says sharply, eyeing them hard. "No. Yes, yes, of course not. Sir," she hangs up the phone, rubs her temples viciously. "Where the _hell_ have the two of you been, and why don't you answer your _bloody_ phones!"

Lewis is clearly taken aback by her vehemence, as is Hathaway, who can't understand what she has to be so upset about.

"Ma'am," Begins Lewis, stopping as Innocent hold up her hand. 

She stands up as well, rolling her head on her neck while simultaneously rubbing her lower back. She's wearing a color block dress in olive, violet, and black, all of which are colors that look good on her. It's the styling, Hathaway decides, that make her look like a breakfast tv host.

Innocent folds her arms and without preamble says, "Alejandro Bianchi is dead."

There is a short, charged silence.

Lewis beats Hathaway to the punch. "What?"

"Bianchi is dead. Murdered in his cell by some one or some ones _in this nick!_ " she says, ending on a shout.

Which explains the press outside, to a degree. But how - ?

"Someone leaked it, we don't know who," Innocent unwittingly answers his unspoken question.

"How was he killed?" asks Lewis.

"Very quietly. Garotted. No images on the tapes and we can't figure out how. No one goes in or out."

"Grimes must be livid."

" _I'm_ livid," snaps Innocent, rounding her desk to stand in front of Lewis with her hands on her hips. "There's a dead witness in my station, a witness who lodged a complaint against my top two coppers, a lawyer who's already been seen speaking to the press, and the Chief Constable on his way along with a Detective Superintendent Sampson from the MET's investigation team."

Before either Lewis or Hathaway have a chance to say something, there's a hard knock on the open door. Wendy McClure from Archives leans in, sweeps one hand towards someone Hathaway can't see. "Diplomatic Services to see you, ma'am."

Hathaway feels how Lewis looks; surprised and discomfited. Innocent makes a small sound of annoyance and retreats behind her desk.

A slim blond woman in jeans, white blouse, black leather boots and a black leather jacket enters the office. Her eyes are blue, her gaze steely and omniscient. Hathaway immediately understands that neither Lewis or himself are important to her. He catches Lewis' attention and tilts his head towards the hall.

"Stay," commands Innocent. 

Blondie smirks ever so slightly. "Close the door."

"And what can I do for the Government today," says Innocent.

Lewis's eyebrows shoot to his receding hairline while Hathaway clasps his hands together and fights down the sensation of glee. Innocent's tone is...well, it's snarky. Something Hathaway is used to hearing from her, but which he doubts the 'Government' will be as amused.

"Alejandro Bianchi was one of ours and we - "

"And you are?"

The smirk disappeared. Blondie reached into a jacket pocket, then held out a white card to Hathaway. It read, in delicate black script:

_Alicia Pauline Linebarger  
0208 496 8813_

"You'll find everything you need to know at that number."

Alicia Pauline Linebarger? _Really?_ Hathaway manages not to snort. He holds the card by one corner, hopes not to smudge any finger prints.

Innocent picks up her pen and scribbles something that Hathaway, being the tallest in the room, can clearly see bears no relation to writing. "I'll have Miss McClure make the arrangements. "

Linebarger blinks, as if she's surprised Innocent has capitulated so easily, without questions. "Well, thank you," she glances at Hathaway and Lewis, then leaves the office.

Innocent looks at the door and jerks her head up a little. 

Lewis closes the door. 

"Sergeant?" she asks.

0Hathaway produces the card, takes a step and puts it on her desk. "Paul Linebarger was an expert in psychological warfare for the American Army and the Central Intelligence Agency. He also advised the British Military in an unknown capacity. I find it curious that an unknown relation should work for Diplomatic Services."

He stops, because both Innocent and Lewis are staring at him with mutual looks of bewinderment. He loves it when he plucks some obscure bit of knowledge out of the aether. "He also wrote science fiction under the name Cordwainer Smith. Alice Sheldon, too, worked for the CIA, and wrote science fiction under the names of Racoona Sheldon and James Tiptree, Junior."

"The marmalade?" asks Lewis, now bemused.

Hathaway inclines his head slightly in acknowledgment. "Murdered her 84 year old blind husband, then committed suicide."

"Right," says Innocent faintly. 

"Hathaway, how do you know these things?" sputters Lewis.

"When I was twelve I found my brother Philip's collection of Science Fiction."

Innocent shakes her head. "Well. We have to consider Bianchi a far bigger issue than any of us were aware of beforehand." 

"Yes," says Hathaway, pointing towards the card. "The name is obviously an amalgamation, but gives us an indication of who wants Bianchi's body apart from Diplomatic Services," he finished with air quotes, because really, Diplomatic Services? DS had been suggested to him as a branch he might be interested in. Perhaps if he had realized it entailed cloak and dagger, he might have gone there instead of regular, ordinary policework.

"Have Gurdip trace that number, then get back to your dentist."

"Ma'am!"

Innocent holds up one hand to forestall the rest of Lewis' outburst. "No, Robbie. I need you both to be as uninvolved as possible at this late date. Your saving grace is that you weren't in the station when Bianchi's body was discovered, and that also weren't here when Sergeant Grimes gave him an extra breakfast at nine."

Dismissed, they return to the office, slumping into their chairs with mutual sighs of frustration. Hathaway spins in his chair once, slowly, trying to figure how all of this is going to play out. Bianchi is dead, Innocent seems to think the complaint is dead (and as much as he likes to think this is the case, he also knows that Management is Management and that they must be seen Doing Something), there's a member of the Government who wants Bianchi's body - and God only knows what for - and Lewis went home last night and didn't text him and he just doesn't know what to do about that.

A phone rings, Lewis answers, barking his own name out. After a moment listening he looks at Hathaway and mouths, "Charlie Choi."

Hathaway nods. He sips cold coffee, then remembers it's actually left over from the day before. Which explains the flavour. And how much coffee has he had today, anyway? 

Hmm, Linebarger. He thinks he might search the Internet, see if he can find Norstrilia or The Rediscovery of Man on eBay. He's definitely willing to shell out for a decent hardcover edition if one of either is available. 

Lewis is still speaking to Choi when Hathaway's cell phone rings. Without looking at the number, he touches the green icon and says, "Sergeant Hathaway."

"James, Caressa tells me you're not coming to the wedding."

 _Christ_. The spike of pain above Hathaway's left eye is sudden enough to make him groan in protest. 

"James!" Sebastian's speaking voice is suitably deep, as befits a Basso Profundo, and recaptures Hathaway's attention immediately. "Are you there? James?"

"Yes, I'm here. I've already explained myse-"

"I'm not interested in hearing your excuses. You _will_ attend Mummy's wedding and you may want to bring a _friend_."

Hathaway hears the slight, yet pointed, emphasis on 'friend' and smiles sourly to himself. Sebastian likes to think he knows his youngest brother inside and out, but the fact is that he was well out of the house before Hathaway was even born. And after Father's death from a heart attack when Hathaway was fourteen, Sebastian has made a point of guilting him into family events. Sebastian could never take the place of their Father.

A fact for which Hathaway is sincerely grateful.

"Do you have a plus one?"

"Um, no. No."

"Just don't bring anyone like that _ghastly_ Henriette. Mummy absolutely loathed her."

Having caught his then girlfriend with his father in flagrante delicto in the garden shed at Oak Cottage, Hathaway was inclined to agree.

"We've opened up the east wing of the house for guests. I've reserved a room for you there, if you're going to stay over night."

"Sebastian - I, I don't know if I'll be able to stay that long," he said, silently cursing his inability to stay away from his family.

"I expect you to be on your best behavior, James."

Hathaway squeezes his eyes shut, as if that will make the headache go away. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes. I want you to tell Mummy that you love her, and approve of her new marriage."

"You don't ask for much, do you? says Hathaway, resigned to his fate. "I'll be there. But that's all I can promise, Sebastian."

"Better than nothing. Until then, James. Goodbye."

"Until then," Hathaway answers, hitting the red icon on his phone. He rubs his face with both hands, then massages his scalp with his fingertips. No more coffee today, and really, he shouldn't have any tomorrow, either. Maybe not even any tea.

"You all right?" asks Lewis.

Hathaway nods. "What did Charlie say?"

"According to Chapman, Wayne Blackburn has come in and confessed to murdering our dentist. Said he couldn't take the pain of his impacted molars any more. Charlie's apparently found evidence to the same, several fingerprints and a business card at the scene of the crime."

Lewis is doing his best, but Hathaway doesn't hold back. He chuckles, because it's just a ridiculous reason to kill someone. Pathetic. Sad. 

"You looked awfully distracted over there. Thought I overheard an intense conversation."

"That's why you're a detective inspector."

Lewis shoots him an annoyed but amused look, then opens a desk drawer. He grabs something, then tosses it to Hathaway. "A little something for you."

Hathaway plucks it out of the air - a bottle of paracetamol. Clearly, his boss is a genius. He dry-swallows a couple of the little white pills and begins checks his personal email on his phone. Another missive from Caressa - he deletes it unread - as well as one from Fiona. He's tempted to delete that one, too. Not that they ended badly...he's just no longer that interested in her life. He makes a mental note to return her text and gets on with the remainder of his day.

Later that evening, long after Innocent has leaned through the door and told them they had been fully cleared of involvement not only of Bianchi's death, but of his allegations, after Lewis has sent him home early because the paracetamol hasn't helped, after he's eaten some roast beef and potato and is contemplating just going to bed, there's a knock on the front door. Hathaway hastily bids on a hardcover collection of James Tiptree, Jr before answering the door. Pleased surprise followed by dread courses through him as Lewis shoulders his way past into the lounge.

Lewis doesn't sit down, so neither does Hathaway. He was not raised to be impolite, however. "Would you like something to drink?"

Lewis shakes his head. "No, I've got to be on my way in a minute. Didn't want to leave you hanging."

Hathaway shifts from foot to foot, wishes he had something to drink, something to do with his hands, a physical distraction of any kind.

"James."

Hathaway is commanded to stillness by Lewis' steady gaze. "Sir?"

"Enough of that, lad. Val isn't leaving, and while she's not happy with either of us, she's not demanding I get meself a new Sergeant, either."

He doesn't quite slump with relief. Even so, he has to put both hands on the back of the couch to regain his equilibrium. "She still hates me?"

"No, lad. She was shocked, and scared," Lewis says. "It's all my fault for not telling her all those years ago. Never even occurred to me to do so. I was already a constable when we met, an' back then it just wasn't done, telling the wife what we got up to."

"Delicate sensibilities?" asks Hathaway, turning around and folding his arms.

Lewis snorts. "And a strong right hook."

They smile at one another. Hathaway would like to know more details about Val - but it isn't particularly his business.

"I'd best be getting back," Lewis ambles towards the hallway, and Hathaway follows. "I couldn't let you go another night without letting you know."

"Thank you," says Hathaway. He looks fondly at his Governor, the best he's ever had, and his friend besides.

Just before they reach the front door, Lewis stops. He reaches out and Hathaway gratefully steps into the older man's embrace. He revels in the tightness of Lewis' grasp, the slow glide of his hands from shoulder to hip and back again. As much as Hathaway wants to continue hugging Lewis, he knows the sooner Lewis gets home, the happier Val will be.

Hathaway loosens his own grip, then starts to step back. Lewis doesn't let him go, however. Instead, Lewis winds his fingers through the hair at Hathaway's nape, and pulls him down for a kiss. 

This is no mere meeting of the lips. Or rather, it starts out that way; little dry sips that follow no pattern that Hathaway can predict, all he can do is stand there and allow Lewis free rein. In all honesty, he's so stunned that it doesn't even occur to him until Lewis has driven off that he should have kissed Lewis back. At three in the morning Hathaway will think this is completely understandable, considering Lewis' parting words.

One hand splayed against Hathaway's cheek, Lewis pushes until the back of Hathaway's head meets the wall. Lewis surges up and bites his neck just below the hinge of his jaw - hard enough to leave a mark that can't be covered by his shirt collar. 

Breathless and wanting, Hathaway watches the sparkle in Lewis' eyes as he steps back fully, looking at his handiwork. 

"You're mine, lad, and don't you forget it."

It takes all of Hathaway's will just to nod. Of course he's Lewis' - he has been since their very first case. 

Lewis gives Hathaway a cheery little wave before getting into his car and driving off. 

Back to Val.

No matter. Lewis is a man of his word. 

And so is Hathaway. The basket of mail sits on the dining table and he searches through it until he finds the cream envelope. Fate, again. It's a wonder he kept this when he usually throws out all mail after reading it. Ah, black tie. He is not going to rent a tuxedo to wear to a wedding, that would be outrageous. He does, however, have a nice suit and that tie with the black-on-black pattern Dr. Hobson had given him for some holiday he was pretty sure she had made up.

If Val can get over the shock of him and Lewis, than he can attend his mother's wedding and a day spent with his family.

Yes, he can. Yes.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> What if fraternization were encouraged? What if, behind closed doors, the cops were being all touchy and feely? What if this was suspected, but dismissed as dirty rumour and then someone found it was true?
> 
> Alicia Pauline Linebarger is, of course, Roz Myers from Spooks/MI5. I don't know, either.
> 
> Paul Linebarger/Cordwainer Smith did work for the CIA and the British Government. He was also Sun Yat Sen's godson. He was a fantastic writer and I highly recommend his work - if you can find it!
> 
> Alice Sheldon/James Tiptree, Jr. - brilliant, but troubled writer. She too worked for the CIA. I highly recommend her body of work, too. And when she was 71, she did kill her husband and commit suicide thereafter. Recommended stories include _'The Women Men Don't See_ ', _'Houston Houston Do You Read_ ' and _'Love is the Plan the Plan is Death'_.
> 
> Title by Petronius Arbiter, Ben Jonson, trans.
> 
> The Playlist: I can't find single tunes of Orff's Carmina Burana with Eugene Ormandy conducting (his really is the best), so here are the appropriate songs from one full video, starting at the specific times:
> 
> [Si Puer Cum Puellula](http://youtu.be/lFcYS8IIq1A?t=46m29s) \- 46:29  
> [Veni, Veni, Venias](http://youtu.be/lFcYS8IIq1A?t=47m31s) \- 47:31  
> [Tempus Est Jocundum](http://youtu.be/lFcYS8IIq1A?t=50m43s) \- 50:43  
> [O Fortuna](http://youtu.be/lFcYS8IIq1A?t=2s) 0:01


End file.
